Deadheads
by Lady Salazar
Summary: Voldemort has a little fun with the Elder Wand before he dies, and minds are screwed with afterward. Potters always go for redheads. The Peverells were necrophiles. So Harry likes…? Crack, light Gryffindor/fem!Harry, DH AU oneshot


Disclaimer: Again, Potter isn't mine. No money being made. Also, the 'Potters go for redheads' and 'Ginny looks just like Lily' cliches aren't mine. I support H/G myself, but those cliches really make my eyes roll. It's like a petty attempt at making something nostalgic/meant to be instead of actually 'meant to be.' Along with the Ginny-screams-in-his-face-and-bosses-him-around shtick, but oh well. This isn't meant to be a rant.

Notes: This is crack. It does try to shade into seriousness occasionally, since I don't typically write nonserious fic, but I'm making fun of cliches here. Forgive me.

* * *

_**Deadheads**_

"Okay. Explain this to me again. Why is Godric Gryffindor standing in the Great Hall?"

Ginny sighed, visibly aggravated. Harry understood her feelings; the younger witch had already explained what little she knew several times. On the other hand, the explanation stuck just as well in her mind as it did in Ron's, and she hoped a repeat performance might help. That it hadn't on the previous repeats was irrelevant. It had to sink in eventually.

The witch privately suspected it wasn't so much the 'he's supposed to be dead' part that had her baffled. It wasn't even the whole dear Merlin it's _Godric Gryffindor!_ wonder. Nah, she was a big enough celebrity herself that it didn't faze her, and really, she was legally dead for a while not very long ago herself.

"I _told_ you Ron," Ginny growled. "McGonagall said Voldemort Raised him using some necromantic ritual, to use him against the Order. And Hermione, no, I have no idea how it worked, since everyone knows necromancy has never managed anything beyond Inferi. And if you lot will _excuse_ me, I want to talk with Neville."

The redhead stomped off without waiting for a response. Ron gazed after her, a lost look on his face.

"Godric Gryffindor is alive again," Hermione summarized helpfully, "and no one knows how."

"Well yeah, I got that part," said Ron. He glanced at Harry for a second before his eyes stole over to the figure in the Hall, standing slightly away from everyone else. From Gryffindor's expression, he had no clue what to do with himself. That was convenient, because no one else knew what to do with him either. "It's just… I don't understand. He could be Harry's _mum_ if he only had boobs!"

Hermione choked on her tongue. "Ron!"

"It's true, Hermione! It's _true_!" Ron sounded nearly hysterical.

And it _was_ true: Gryffindor stood perhaps an inch or two shorter than Harry herself, with longish dark red hair and bright green eyes, although the latter couldn't be made out from the distance. He wasn't short and stocky like the twins – like _George_ – either; he was lean and wiry, with exactly the sort of dueler's build pureblood families tried to cultivate. Harry had inherited exactly that build from her father.

In short, he looked _girly_.

"Well," Hermione countered, flustered, "if – if Harry _didn't_ have 'boobs,' she could pass for her father!"

Now Harry choked on her tongue. "Hermione!"

"I know, but… that's Godric Gryffindor!"

"Ron! I do not look like a boy!"

Harry's comment was loud enough that it drew the attention of many in the quiet Hall. She flushed at the near-accusatory stares the gathered witches and wizards were sending her way; a deadly battle had just concluded, with casualties on both sides, and here she was yelling about her appearance. How very considerate of her. They should award her a medal.

Granted, they probably would, if for a different reason. Harry wondered if Voldemort's death would ever feel real.

The remark attracted the attention of Gryffindor himself as well, but she was too far away to read his expression. She thought it was a searching look, so when slight man began to slide his way through the huddles of families and friends, she backed away.

"I'll be back later," Harry told her friends. "I need to talk to Dumbledore."

* * *

Harry was prepared to avoid Gryffindor for however long it took until someone else figured out what to do with him, but the victory celebrations had hardly begun before a figure came careening into a nearby portrait, yelling her name.

"Harry Potter!" it said, breathing hard. "Albus wants you in the Headmaster's office. Come quick; it's about Gryffindor."

"What about him?" she asked with a scowl, lowering the mug of butterbeer she had raised for a toast.

The men in the portrait looked askance at her, as though the idea of her not rushing away instantly hadn't occurred to them. "It's Gryffindor. Some people from the Ministry – Albus thinks they mean to throw him in Azkaban."

"What?" Up until a day ago, Gryffindor acted under necromantic thrall, which was a fair bit more powerful than even the Imperius Curse. What'd they mean to throw him in Azkaban for? It made no sense to Harry, but then, few of the Ministry's actions ever did. Doubly so now that it was in chaos following the collapse of Voldemort's and the Death Eaters' compulsion spells. "On what grounds?"

"I don't know," the portrait ground out, "but you need to hurry, not stand around asking questions."

Harry cast a resigned look at the gathered cluster of Hogwarts students and alumni, the survivors of what was once called Dumbledore's Army, passed her tankard to Seamus Finnegan, and left. No matter how badly she desired to stay, there was no way Harry could risk allowing a man to be thrown unjustly into Azkaban.

The Headmaster's office was packed when Harry arrived. McGonagall stood determinedly near the wall from which Dumbledore's portrait hung, and an ill-at-ease Horace Slughorn shifted his considerable weight from foot to foot at her side – the side, Harry noted, opposite where Gryffindor sat silent and still, watching the proceedings with alert green eyes. He had no wand.

Across from those three, a thickset man with a wide nose and large, shiny forehead stood behind a man in Auror's robes Harry, with a surprised jolt, recognized as one of the Aurors that had accompanied Fudge to Hogwarts in the attempt to arrest Dumbledore. Dawlish had his wand trained directly at Gryffindor's throat, and his expression left no doubt he would relish an excuse to start practicing his Slashing Hex. Harry felt for her own wand in response. While her holly wand was mended, the witch hadn't yet had the chance to return the Elder Wand to Dumbledore's tomb, so Harry tightened her grip on it instead, hoping the wand's reputation would aid in avoiding still more conflict. A second Auror held court on the thick man's other side, far more subdued and professional than Dawlish. And right next to him, several sheaves of parchment in her short, stubby fingers, was Dolores Umbridge.

"You!" Harry burst out. "What are _you_ doing here?"

Harry hadn't exactly been quiet in her approach, but tension must have succeeded where stealth failed. Everyone jumped. Impressively, despite how high-strung he appeared, Dawlish managed not to fire a hex at her. She ignored the varied exclamations – everything from a disgusted 'Potter' from Umbridge herself to a mock-jovial 'Harry, my girl!' from Slughorn – and stared pointedly from the once Undersecretary, once Head of the Muggle-born Registration Commission, always malevolent witch to the thickset man who in all likelihood bought her loyalty with a ticket out of Azkaban.

"Harry Potter," he acknowledged with a cool nod. "My name is Virtus Thicknesse. Yes, as in Pius Thicknesse," he added when Harry's brows went up. "Interim Minister for Magic. Dolores is here at my request. I trust that is no trouble?"

"There'll _be_ trouble," she said darkly, but failed to push the issue. The warning, clear despite his light tone, meant nothing to Harry. Kingsley was working to set up trials for the captured Death Eaters; after that, he intended to try multiple people, including Umbridge, for war crimes, and Harry would pull every string she had in order to throw the monstrous woman into the darkest, dankest hole in Azkaban – interim Minister's ear or not. "What's going on here?"

"In all honesty, Minister," Umbridge spoke, her high, squeaky voice sickly sweet, "I don't believe Miss Potter's presence is required. Surely she has other, more important business to attend?"

"In all honesty, Minister," snarked Harry, before anyone else could speak, "I don't believe Madam Umbridge's existence is required. Surely there are other, less appalling flunkies to buy?"

The unknown Auror stifled a snicker, and Dawlish winced despite himself. Thicknesse, on the other hand, just smiled thinly.

"Dolores, you forgot to tell me about her devastating wit," he said dryly, casting the fuming witch a glance. Umbridge looked at Harry with eyes that promised death, and Harry smiled back, showing a great deal of teeth. "Tell me, Miss Potter, what do you know of Necromancy?"

Harry rocked back on metaphorical heels as she recalled exactly why she was there, having forgotten the instant she saw Umbridge. She ambled her way over to Gryffindor, placing herself on his undefended side. "I know that, as a branch of magic, it's considered a colossal failure."

Actually, she knew a great deal more than that, thanks to her former obsession with gathering the Hallows. The Tale of the Three Brothers was rooted in Necromancy lore – or _was_ the root, it could go either way. In fact, the Deathly Hallows remained the only known true necromantic artifacts. Outside of the wand, stone, and cloak, the only success Necromancy could boast was the Inferius. Well, until Gryffindor. Harry thought she could guess where Thicknesse was going.

"The… man beside you is proof that Necromancy is not a fraud," the Minister argued. His tone suggested calling Gryffindor something so humanizing as a 'man' was distasteful to him – or that he had a hard time believing Gryffindor actually was a man. Given that Thicknesse ran in the same pack as Umbridge, Harry would be unsurprised if both were true. "But neither is it perfect. Surely, the real Godric Gryffindor was a good man, but this simulacrum is responsible for the deaths and injuries of many innocent witches and wizards."

"Well, the toad right beside you is responsible for the torture and imprisonment of many innocent witches and wizards," Harry rejoined instantly, more to buy time to think than anything. Gryffindor's eyes had darkened at the accusation, and his expression tightened, but he denied nothing.

"There is extensive precedent for treatment of crimes committed under compulsion magic," the portrait Dumbledore interjected lightly. "The Imperius Curse aside, should I attempt to compile a list of control spells, I should be busy this time next year; and I do believe Horace could indicate multiple potions capable of robbing even the most stalwart of free will."

"Perhaps he was acting under a compulsion." Thicknesse nodded minutely, accepting it as a possibility. "It makes no difference. There is no precedent for the treatment of a resurrected wizard – unless you apply the 'burn on sight' order for Inferi. Nor is there precedent for the treatment of a… man… who, should He Who Must Not Be Named-"

"Voldemort," said Harry very sharply, "is _dead_."

"With all due respect, Miss Potter," the interim Minister countered, "he has been _dead_ before." A moment of dead silence followed. Harry pursed her lips, having no desire to answer the unspoken question. Thicknesse noted this and added, "I have no intention of leaving him a ready thrall should he somehow return a third time."

"I would find your dedication impressive, were it not my life on the line," a deep, very male voice spoke. Harry stared around at the Headmasters' portraits for one wild second, before she realized just who the sound had come from. She blinked at Gryffindor, trying to fit the incongruously male voice with the ultra-feminine appearance and failing.

"It does speak!" Umbridge exclaimed in surprise. She leaned forward in interest. "All the reports described it as mute, slaughtering as impersonally and implacably as one of the Muggles' barbaric killing weapons… An intelligent weapon is infinitely more dangerous, Minister; you must agree."

Gryffindor bristled. No one liked being referred to as an 'it.' His fingers flexed, almost like he was contemplating strangling someone, and his right hand settled into what would have been a dueling position had he a wand.

"And _you_ must agree," Thicknesse added, his sweeping glance brushing over Harry, Dumbledore's portrait and the two Hogwarts faculty, neither of which had spoken outside of greeting her. "A weapon so dangerous must be destroyed."

"You labor under the impression I will simply allow you to _destroy_ me," Gryffindor murmured, green eyes narrowing in what was clearly a warning.

"Quiet, Gryffindor," snapped Harry, stepping in front of him; Dawlish quickly slashed his wand off to the side, and the nonverbal hex he'd begun blasted McGonagall's Head chair to splinters of wood. "You aren't helping."

Amazingly, the Raised wizard said nothing; he appeared to have lost his voice. Gryffindor gave her a startled look, confused and almost worried.

Thicknesse saw it. Harry tensed at the thoughtful expression that passed over his face, followed quickly by inscrutable one, and then a thin, razor-edged smile.

"Very well, Miss Potter," he said with a nod. Dawlish nearly dropped his wand, wheeling around to stare at him, betrayed. It suddenly occurred to Harry that by his actions it was likely Dawlish had lost someone to Gryffindor. "If you so devoutly believe that this man is safe, then on your head be it. The Ministry will entrust him to you."

Harry was entirely aware she was gawking at him, but Thicknesse merely smiled again and turned his attention to McGonagall, asking if she minded if they used the Floo. What caused this sudden change of pace? Thicknesse had been as dead-set on nailing Gryffindor as Umbridge; Harry read it in his face. Why the flip-flop?

Her only relief was that none of the Minister's companions appeared to understand, either.

Curiosity about the interim Minister's motives flew out the metaphorical window not much later, however. McGonagall and Slughorn both awkwardly excused themselves with hardly another word, and Dumbledore's portrait began feigning sleep. Harry tried not to stare at Gryffindor – of all the things she might have intended by coming here, being saddled with babysitting the current elephant in the room wasn't one of them. Just looking at him was hard. It was simply bizarre for a man to resemble one's mother so strongly.

Gryffindor was being stubbornly silent, as well. She could feel his eyes roving over her, piecing together what he knew of her and forming opinions. Harry tried not to feel irritated. She hated it when people formed opinions about her based on hearsay alone, but Gryffindor was hard-pressed to do anything else; and Harry knew she'd be doing the same in his position.

"So." The attempt to break the silence fell flat. Harry searched for something else to say. "I'm Harry Potter," she tried again, extending a hand to shake. "We haven't officially met."

"Godric Gryffindor," he said simply. Gryffindor took her hand, and rather than shake it as expected, did a polite half-bow and kissed her knuckles. Harry's face flamed. She bit down on the impulse to tear her hand away. Even if the weirdness factor had just jumped another ten notches, it wasn't Gryffindor's fault he was a thousand years out of date.

Silence again. Harry swore she could hear snickering from the faking-sleep portraits.

"I was at one of the celebrations before one of the portraits asked me here," Harry offered. "Mostly former D. A., so it's fairly small. You can come if you want." She prayed none of them shared Dawlish's position, or things could get hairy very quickly.

Gryffindor seemed to realize this. "I would not presume to enforce my presence among those who may have recently lost loved ones." _At my wand_ went unspoken, but implied.

"Then where are you going to go?" asked Harry rudely. "There are parties scattered everywhere throughout this castle. It'll be hard to dodge all of them. And, even giving you managed that," she added, "you don't even have a wand. What happens when you run across someone with a grudge?"

The redhead studied her, puzzled by her vehemence. Harry felt foolish. She didn't know why she was being so stubborn. If Gryffindor went out and got himself killed out of stupidity, it wasn't like it would be her fault; really, it would be a relief.

But it just wasn't Harry's nature to leave someone defenseless. Sour, the witch fished around her pocket for her oldest wand, ignoring the icy fury of hawthorn and the heady rush of elder for the gentle warmth of holly. After finally managing to have it repaired, it stuck in Harry's craw to give it up, but handing over Malfoy's wand was begging for trouble and there wasn't a chance in hell she was handing over the Elder Wand. Harry didn't really have a choice.

"Here," she said, offering the handle to him.

If Gryffindor had been puzzled before, now he was thunderstruck. He took the wand very carefully, as though fearing he would damage it. "I thank you, Miss Potter." Then he paused uncertainly.

"Harry," the witch corrected. Gryffindor opened his mouth to speak; she looked away. "I figure we'll end up getting to know each other pretty well. Might as well call me by my name… um, and yeah, it's a boy's name, but my parents did that on purpose because Voldemort was hunting down witches born in July and they were trying to fool him into ignoring me…" Harry stopped herself. Merlin, she was babbling. What did it matter why she had a boy's name?

And the portraits were still sniggering at her.

For Gryffindor's part, the wizard appeared mystified. "In that case, you may call me Godric. I must confess I do not know my parents' motives in naming me as such, however."

Oh, this was embarrassing. Harry sighed. "That's not – oh never mind. I give up."

She fled.

* * *

"For Merlin's sake, stop this! Right now!"

Gryffindor, with his usual quiet acquiescence, stepped back from his latest attacker, though he wisely did not lower his wand. The attacker, a mousey little boy with a Ravenclaw tie Harry vaguely recognized as being from her year, was not so kind; but anticipating the jinx, Harry deflected it away harmlessly. For all the venom in his glare, the boy appeared nothing more than dusty.

To her mixed relief and consternation, Gryffindor was highly reluctant to do more than defend himself in these encounters. This kept him out of trouble and therefore spared Harry the problems that would doubtless follow with Thicknesse, but the witch was beginning to wonder if Gryffindor would be better off dueling some unfortunate bloke into insensibility in full view of his detractors. Most of the idiots that attacked him hadn't a snowball's chance in Hell of beating him, but given no one was punished for doing so, the idiots still attacked.

"Get out of my sight," Harry snapped, letting her considerable irritation color her tone. The Ravenclaw swallowed, his face twisting in helpless fury, and bolted without a word. She glared at his back as he retreated, waiting until he disappeared to loose an explosive sigh.

This was getting tiresome, but how was she supposed to stop them? Harry already felt the occasional resentful glare on her back when people thought she didn't notice. She no longer wondered why Thicknesse had changed his mind so suddenly. Her defense of Gryffindor wore down many of the strings her defeat of Voldemort placed in her hands.

"You needn't try and protect me," Gryffindor said quietly, his green gaze steady. There was always a subtle wariness toward her, but it had faded over the past week.

"I know." Harry gave him a tired look. They had been over this before.

He studied her. "It is simply your nature to step in to help, isn't it?" Gryffindor made it sound like a foreign idea. The real Gryffindor was apparently not as fond of tilting at windmills as history indicated.

Windmills weren't much her style either. Harry shrugged. "Hermione says I have a 'saving-people-thing,' so yeah, I guess you could say that." In fact, Harry usually just went all the way. She was probably the only person ever to survive sacrificing herself.

Gryffindor smiled slightly. "That is a rare flaw."

"I wasn't aware that wanting to help people counted as a flaw."

The redhead shook his head. "It isn't and it is. Putting others before oneself is noble… but doing so means one is usually the first to die."

"And that works out pretty well, usually," Harry replied thoughtfully. The wizard gave her an uncomprehending stare. "Well, all sacrificial love magic protections aside, it means you don't have to live knowing they died when you could've saved them. It's harder to be the ones left behind."

Her words gave her stomach a twist. George's stony face at Fred's funeral… Teddy in the arms of his grandmother, both parents dead… Sometimes the truth was harsher spoken.

Gryffindor's expression was odd. "This is true, perhaps." He shook his head, perturbed. "My father often said that, I am told." He paused again. "It is… strange."

"What's strange?" asked Harry.

"My father died when I was young," said Gryffindor after a moment. He looked almost awkward, like he really didn't want to say what he was saying. "I only know him from portraits and my mother's tales. But you… you favor him greatly."

It took Harry second to work out what that was supposed to mean, and then her face flamed. Gryffindor could pass for her mother's genderswapped twin, and she apparently greatly resembled Gryffindor's own father. This could not possibly get any weirder.

…on second thought, it probably could.

* * *

If Harry ever got the chance again, she was letting Draco Malfoy die. The bastard had slipped to his mother that against all odds, Harry had been the one to save his life in the Battle of Hogwarts, not once but twice – and both before she took that fateful walk in the woods. Unfortunately for Harry, not all of the pureblood elite were content to take up Voldemort's little tattoo. And Narcissa, high society ice queen that she was, was smart enough to take advantage of that fact.

Net result, the neat little embroidered invitation Harry held gingerly in one hand.

"Malfoy's mum invited you to a ball?" Ron demanded, sounding as disgruntled as Harry felt.

"A 'birthday celebration' in honor of the witch who twice defeated He Who Must Not Be Named," Hermione corrected, paraphrasing the flowery prose of the invitation. "An introduction to the world of her forebears, graciously hosted by a family which owes her their thanks not only for freedom from the Dark Lord's tyranny, but for the life of their son and continuance of their family name."

"It sounds like you're marrying him or something," Ron griped.

Harry gagged. "That's disgusting, Ron."

"Yeah, but that's still what it sounds like. I bet you he won't have a date, either."

"Well, neither will I. I'm not going."

"But Harry, you have to," Hermione protested. Harry stared. "I know you don't like it. I know you hate formal events. But you have to. Kingsley's counting on you for support, and if you snub this, every last one of the neutral purebloods will fight you just for spite."

Harry chewed on that. It tasted awful. What was worse was that Hermione was right – as usual – and there was no way out of this. That was the problem with playing the hero. It didn't end with the conflict; the cameras kept rolling until the audience got bored. There was no way Harry could risk her fraying social standing for a schoolyard grudge, not when monsters like Umbridge could go scot free.

On the other hand, Hermione didn't seem to understand that letting Narcissa imply that Harry had a thing going with a convicted Death Eater's son was nearly as bad.

Which meant she had to go _with_ someone. Just like the Yule Ball. But at least then she had an unattached male friend. Hermione would probably object to Harry taking Ron. Hannah would definitely object to her taking Neville. Outside of those two, she knew of no-one who would go with her that she would trust in a pit of vipers. Pureblood affairs were, as a rule, social nightmares.

Unless-

Harry had an idea.

Ron and Hermione exchanged wary looks, both knowing from hard experience to fear the shit-eating grin that spread over her face. "Harry, what are you thinking?"

"Gryffindor."

Hermione gaped. "Are you mad?"

Ron laughed. "That's bloody brilliant!"

Assuming Gryffindor would agree, that is.

* * *

The ball, despite being sponsored by the Malfoys, did not take place in Malfoy Manor. Harry gathered that this was surprising; while trusting a gaggle of people not to destroy or sabotage one's home was not a pureblood trait, neither was the ability to pass up flaunting one's luxurious home to the unwashed masses. She wasn't sure whether Narcissa thought she was being clever, sponsoring the birthday-bash-slash-matchmaking-affair in a neutral area to avert reminders of the torture Hermione underwent there, or if the older and more politically-savvy witch predicted her move to enlist Gryffindor as her escort and didn't want the Raised wizard in her house. It could go either way.

For his part, Gryffindor stood beside and slightly behind Harry, studying the hall with dueler's regard. Green eyes passed over the exits and the strategic placement of the tables and seats, and lips quirked ruefully.

"This room is not meant to be escaped easily, I fear," he murmured, hand circling into its just-missing-a-wand dueling grip. The holly wand that ended up being a permanent loan – thralls weren't permitted wands, see – was strapped to his arm underneath the green and gold sleeves of his dress robes.

"All of Mrs. Malfoy's money would go to waste if I escaped before Draco could corner me." Though unsurprised, Harry resisted the urge to tug at her hair in frustration. With so much Sleekeazy's Hair Potion in it, the usually untamed locks might bite.

Gryffindor gave her the now familiar Look, which she figured meant "I don't get your problem." Again, the former-thrall's status as a thousand years out of date gave her problems. The Malfoys, a vaunted pureblood family, saw half-blood Potter as a viable partner in marriage? How wonderful. She should be ecstatic.

Not.

"I am not getting married," Harry said flatly. Why couldn't nature have completed her otherwise manly package with a dick instead of boobs? Then she wouldn't have to worry about someone stealing her family's wealth, holdings, and positions along with the family name.

"I know this," Gryffindor responded, and said little else until all hell broke loose hours later.

In retrospect, Harry thought she should have expected an attack, but the presence of nearly all the neutral pureblood elite fooled her into a false sense of complacency.

First, the air took on a heavy feel. The weight of the anti-Apparation ward sank in, and there was a moment of general confusion as half of the gathered wizards noticed it and the other half wondered why so many had stopped dancing. The anti-Portkey ward followed, quickly enough to establish two warding crews, and Harry drew the Elder Wand with a curse as the doors exploded by Blasting Curse and hooded and cloaked figures spilled in.

"Get the guests out of here!" Harry snapped at Gryffindor, launching herself into the fray with several Reductor curses. The redhead froze mid-cast, growling audibly, and turned away. Then Harry didn't have the time to spare considering him.

Note for posterity: aside from it making her look masculine, Harry adored her dueler's build. Between it and a gift for dueling magic, she kicked the tails of wizards thrice her age with a bit of effort. It wasn't like she trash-talked Voldemort to death – okay, she had, but that didn't change the fact that Harry was a very good dueler. But twelve-to-one is really bad odds, especially when one doesn't want to kill and twelve do.

Thicknesse would have her arse roasted over a Fiendfyre pit if she used the Killing Curse.

Then Gryffindor was back in a whirl of green, and Harry didn't even know the spells the man was using, just that whatever that blasting curse was it made the Reductor spell look like kiddy magic and that slashing curse put a bloody foot-wide-and-deep gouge in the marble floor. This made even the duel between Dumbledore and Voldemort in the Ministry look like a joke. Blinking owlishly, Harry backed away from the fight at hand, watching with no little awe. Gryffindor hit hard, hit fast, and every one of the attackers was downed in the minute it took Aurors to arrive.

_No wonder everyone who saw him under thrall wants to piss themselves when he's around. _

Giving the law enforcement a disdainful look, Gryffindor stalked over to her. His face was set, but she read anger there. "One last guest," he said, seized her free arm and Disapparated, shattering the anti-Apparation ward as they went. Ow.

Harry shook her head to clear it of disorientation. Apparating through wards, though not impossible for a sufficiently powerful wizard, really, really hurt when one wasn't expecting it. That was a clue, but Harry hadn't required it to know Gryffindor was pissed for some reason. If his expression hadn't been enough, the note in his comment before Disapparating would have given it away.

But pissed or not, the wizard attended to the wound on her wand arm quite gently.

"Do you have anything to say?" Ah, he sounded stern.

"Aside from 'whoa'?" Harry asked. Were it not for the metaphysical cranial trauma, she would probably still be gawking. "I had wondered why everyone was terrified of you. That was amazing. Ow." The cut sealed with a hissing sound. Harry didn't think that charm required such a firm jab, and going by the vaguely annoyed look on Gryffindor's face, she was right. Take that back about him being gentle. "How about I ask you a question: should I have something to say?"

"What did you think you were doing?" he asked flatly. "I could have defeated those attackers with just as little effort before you endangered us both."

That was probably true, but endangering them both? Ha. "I reserve the right to blindly throw myself into life-threatening situations," retorted Harry dryly. "After all, it's my life. And I don't see how that has much to do with you, except that you'll get a different parole officer."

Gryffindor paused, scrutinized her as if she had just Transfigured into something foreign. "You don't understand."

"Then make me understand," she grouched, but this time she saw the sudden stiffening and flash of aggravation. Harry felt a flash of comprehension – probably had for a while, but she was good at ignoring things she didn't like. "Or not, if you don't want to," she added, and her suspicions proved when he relaxed. Oh.

She eyed him. So by killing Voldemort, the thrall bond passed to her? It seemed reasonable, but no. By all necromantic logic, Gryffindor should have returned to rest with the death of the one who Raised him. Unless...

"You didn't join in the attack on Hogwarts after I went to the forest."

Though not a command, it was interrogative. Gryffindor nodded slowly. "I knew myself, then, and would not attack my own school."

And he was Raised in what, February? March? That wasn't long after the Malfoy Manor fiasco, after Hermione was tortured, Dobby was killed… and Harry gained the Elder Wand's loyalty. She was the Master of Death then, even though the wand wasn't with her. More importantly, the Horcrux had been. Harry swallowed.

"Wouldn't Thicknesse love that," she murmured, and moved on, studying her thrall tiredly. "'til death do us part, huh? Good thing I wasn't intending on marriage. My husband would get jealous." She paused, cracked a grin. "At least you're cute. In a girly, almost incestuous kind of way." And he kicked major arse.

Gryffindor stared at her. Wasn't that how the purebloods did it?

* * *

"Okay. Explain this to me again." Once again, Ron's voice failed him, and he resorted to pointing back and forth between Harry and Gryffindor wordlessly. For once, Hermione was no help; she shrank back against the wall after the first recitation, mouthing about Oedipus complexes and Sigmund Freud and other things.

Harry shot Gryffindor an inquiring look, and he answered with an arched brow. The witch smirked, and then she kissed him, making sure to be as daring as she – well, dared. It was rewarded with a strangled yell from her redheaded longtime friend.

"It doesn't make sense!"

"What doesn't?" she said, laughing. "We not related, and even if we were, you're a pureblood!"

"That's not it," he moaned. Glancing at them again, he hid his face in his hands, swaying to and fro miserably. "It's just – who's the man in this relationship? He doesn't look like one and you're not one. It doesn't make sense!"

If looks could kill, Harry would have to Raise Ron because Gryffindor's expression would've left him dead and buried. Mrs. Weasley was already preparing for his and Hermione's wedding day, and she had been so disappointed that Harry wouldn't be having one for her to plan…

"Um. Godric, can you go check on…" She scrambled for something useful, even if the tilt of the Raised man's lips told her he knew what she was doing. Hey, subtlety wasn't her thing. "…on the potion stocks in the hospital wing? That way we know if something happens to the students they can get healed." Gryffindor rolled his eyes at her, but left – in the direction of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, but oh well. Harry turned on Ron. "You don't get it do you?"

"If I did, I wouldn't be saying it didn't make sense."

"But it does. Outstanding circumstances aside," –there was no reason to talk about the Hallows, here– "he was dead, and he's a redhead. He was dead, and I was dead, so we have something in common. And since Potters always go for redheads, I'm all set. Sirius always thought I'd end up marrying you… or Ginny, but I think he thought I was a boy when he said that."

Ron shuddered. "You're creepy, Harry. The Peverells were necrophiles and the Potters liked redheads, so you like, what, deadheads?"

"Until death do us part," Harry joked, and left.

Ron swore. "Merlin hopes she never has kids."

* * *

Fin.

Alternately, Harry could like zombies. Review and you can tell me how thoroughly I fail at writing crackfic. :P


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